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Them broke hooves, them scorpions on the floor:


A year ago we were shotguns between the cattle 
That hummingbird morning him of no nest

That water moccasin flew the tree to the front door, and
Mama heard her son’s death rattle.

Was that fall from his yellow horse
His spine a calf-wrest
And the sleep, 
Like the rain, 
Refused to run its course.

A year ago it was estacado
There were brahmas, birds, broken ribs and bees
That year that brought us to our knees.

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